When Lightning Strikes You
by taylorjeanjn
Summary: There's one word you really hate. All the wrong people say it for all the wrong reasons, and you swore it'd never pass your lips. Of course, that was a promise you made when you were young and stupid and didn't know a thing about Dallas Winston.
1. Chapter 1

**This will just be a tiny, three-part fic. S.E. Hinton owns **_**The Outsiders**_**, and Elton John gets credit for the title.**

**All reviews are welcome :)**

XXX

You're five years old the first time anyone tries shoving that stupid "sorry" word in your direction.

Ms. Tess found Veronica's grimy hands stashing your yellow marker away in her backpack—it has your name on it and everything—and everyone knows the yellow ones matter most. You know stealing is wrong, but apparently nobody told her that.

Her nose scrunches up, and she gives you the marker back while Ms. Tess watches. "Sorry."

"It's okay." You give her your widest smile. You can play nice when you want to—a talent Veronica doesn't have. She doesn't know how to stay out of trouble.

You can get away with whatever you want.

Just before Ms. Tess turns around to stop Steve Randle from eating glue (again), you look Veronica right in the eye. "You can keep the marker." Your voice is sugary sweet, just like the one you use on your daddy when he's mad at you. It's not a voice you like, but Ms. Tess puts another gold star by your name, so it gets the job done.

She puts the marker in her backpack with a frown. You get back to your coloring and try not to smirk. It's good she keeps her head down after that, otherwise she might realize you're using the brand new marker you swiped from her while she was busy trying to take yours.

Too bad she didn't realize your marker was going dead, anyway.

XXX

Up until now you've enjoyed hearing people say sorry to you because it means you've won something. But now it makes you feel bad. Like you're lower than low, dumber than dumb, uglier than ugly. And it's all his fault.

Stupid Sodapop Curtis. He's a liar, and not even that cute anyway. Though you do wish you couldn't see him from where you're sitting on the swings by yourself.

Four-Eyes Debbie finds you there, and you kick up some sand while she opens her mouth to start talking.

"I'm sorry Soda likes me better than you."

"Go away."

"He said you're funny, but I'm—"

"Shut up, Debbie."

"I let him have my cupcake, so maybe that's why—"

"I don't give a damn about Sodapop Curtis!"

It's the first time you've ever said a bad word at school, and you quickly look around in a panic to make sure there's not a teacher nearby. Lucky for you, Mr. Reave is across the playground, busy telling Tim Shepard that he's not allowed to hit his little brother in the head with basketballs.

You noticed Tim a couple years ago, and you've decided he's pretty handsome. Especially since he's two years older than you and sometimes stays out at recess for an extra five minutes, even when he's not supposed to. You wish you were brave enough to do that.

Grinning, Tim tosses the ball to Steve, the quiet kid from your class last year and the Kindergarten glue-eater. You barely notice him, since you're busy watching Tim follow Mr. Reave inside the building. He doesn't look worried at all, though you're sure he's about to get in trouble.

Behind you, a voice speaks up. "He's mean—Tim Shepard, I mean." You turn to find Veronica standing there, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. Debbie's gone. "But you're mean, too."

You hop off your swing and stand in front of her, just a few inches taller. Before you can say anything, she adds, "I think you'd like him better than Soda, though, anyway."

Four years after you stole her yellow marker, you decide Veronica isn't so bad.

Your mouth runs dry as you glance back at the door where Tim just disappeared. You nod. Swallow.

So much better than Sodapop.

XXX

"Dan, I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't thinking, you know? I'm really sorry. You know I'm really, really, really—"

You've heard enough. Doesn't the weepy girl know she's supposed to take her personal shit somewhere else? You paid for a hamburger and a Pibb, not dinner and a show.

The Dingo's front door opens and catches your attention. Over the noise, you barely hear the bell above the door chime, but in steps Dallas Winston, a cigarette stuck between his teeth. He looks around, uninterested, before he spots Tim Shepard's table and walks over.

Across from you, Veronica sighs and you give her a look. She acts like she's doing you some big favor being here, but she really just wants to see how Charlie Williams is holding up after his break-up with Charlene Harrison. Hopefully he's doing just fine, because Veronica is ready to pounce as soon as he's up for a date. Personally, you just want him to stay away from Charlene because Charlene and Charlie sounds like the stupidest damn couple you've ever heard of.

Dally sits down across from Tim not far from where you are. They talk for a while, probably about some stupid boy business

You get bored and stand up to leave. Veronica doesn't notice, too busy looking between Charlie and Charlene, who are both moping at separate tables and surrounded by friends.

Somehow, while you're digging around in your purse for money to pay, Dallas slips past you on his way out. He doesn't notice you at all, and it pisses you off. Even if you've never really talked to him.

You toss a lock of your hair over your shoulder in agitation as Tim slinks by. You follow him. "Hey. Tim." Keeping pace with him, you continue, "Hey, he racin' tonight?"

When Tim finally acknowledges you, his voice doesn't betray much. "Dally? I got more important shit to do than keep track of him."

"Somethin' the matter, Tim?" You don't really need to ask. One of his gang members switched over to Brumley last week. You heard that from the kid who sits next to you in Geography.

He stiffens. You make a mental note to keep your mouth shut and are just about to head back to Veronica when he says, "None of your business."

If you hadn't known Tim for years, he probably would've told you to fuck off by now. He still might, but you can't help pushing for more. "You di'nt answer me."

He quickens his pace, giving you a dark look. "He's not racin' today—cheats anyway."

"I heard he doesn't."

You wish you could take the words back as soon as they're out of your mouth. The last thing you want is him knowing you've been asking around about Dally. Not when there's a small part of you that isn't completely over Tim yet. After all, you've carried a torch for him since the fourth grade. But if anybody asks, you decided he's not worth your time. Especially since he's dating some chick named—who gives a damn?

The corners of his mouth twitch, and the slightest hint of a smirk appears. He doesn't look so annoyed anymore. "I don't think Dally's too interested in kids, Sylvia."

"I'm fourteen."

"Yeah? Still a kid."

You have a sneaking suspicion that Dallas really isn't much older than you are, but Tim disappears before you can ask.

XXX

You're starting to believe that Dally does cheat. You've seen enough of his races to notice that he wins a lot of them, and it doesn't look like he's trying too hard. But maybe that cool indifference is why you like him so much.

He can get pretty damn mad though, that's for sure. Scott Hanson isn't smart enough to see that.

"Hey, Winston," he says, standing not far away from you. Rolling your eyes, you think you'll leave the rodeo just to get away from the asshole, but he piques your interest as he raises his voice. "Fucker, I'm talking to you."

That gets Dally's attention. "What the fuck do you want, Hanson?" he asks, turning away from the girls around him.

"I wanna know how come you think you're hot shit when everybody knows you can't win a race unless you fix it."

You lean back against the wall behind you, looking on with interest. It seems to get real quiet, and for a second, you think Dally might just walk away. But before you know it, Scott the Dumbass is on the ground, getting pummeled. You think his comment doesn't deserve a beating, but it's not your business anyway.

Even though you've never liked fights much, it doesn't turn you off to Dallas. In fact, it makes you want him more. Though you have to admit, when it's all over, watching the other guy spit out a few teeth doesn't do much for your stomach. But it's Scott Hanson, so who cares?

As Dally gets up, wiping blood away from his nose, you could swear he looks right at you. For a brief moment, you stare back. Then you get nervous.

Before you can make a fool of yourself, you walk away. As you leave, you hear Scott. "Sorry, man. Forgot you could fight like that or I would've left you alone."

Later, you find Dallas again. Some older guy is patting him on the back, saying, "Good race, kid." He keeps talking for a while, and you're just about to give up and go somewhere else when he finally shuts the hell up and leaves.

You saunter over, one side of your mouth curled up into a tiny smirk. You've talked to Dally a few times before, so you skip the niceties. "Why does everyone think you cheat?"

If the question pisses him off, he doesn't show it. Instead, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. Just before he puts it in his mouth, he replies, "'Cause I never lose." He speaks in the most level voice you've heard him use, like it's a fact you should already know. He's not joking, either.

"Sure you do. I've seen it."

"Yeah? When?"

You want to say, "Last month, when you came in second against Ron Lucas," but you don't. Besides, you only remember that because it was one of the rare times Dally approached you first.

"I dunno," you say instead. "Probably a couple days ago or somethin'. I don't go to many o' your races." That's a lie, but he doesn't have to know.

Dallas raises an eyebrow, looking down at you. "Could've swore I saw you at the race last week."

"Get your eyes checked."

"Whatever you say, Sylvia." He takes a drag and walks off.

At least he remembers your name.

XXX

It's rowdy, loud, and the whole place smells like rubbing alcohol, but you don't care. A party's a party. Anyway, you'd feel like a real dipshit if you spent your Friday night playing Monopoly with your little sister instead of having some fun at Buck's.

With a drink in hand, you place yourself by the door so you can feel the occasional breeze of cool air. Almost immediately, Mike Wood approaches. He's decent-looking, middle-class, and has a breezy sense of humor, so you don't mind talking to him, even if you're not paying any attention to what he's saying.

Soon enough, the door opens, and you catch the tail-end of Steve Randle's sentence. "—said Susie Banks was eyeing you all night at the bowling alley."

"She said something about bein' friends with Kathy, and how dating me hurts the 'feminist cause'," Two-Bit Mathews says, pushing his way through the crowd of people blocking the doorway.

"Feminist cause?" Randle echoes.

"That's what I said. She walked out in a huff 'fore I could even say sorry for not knowing what dating me has to do with—Oh, hey Dal!"

You keep your gaze locked on Mike, but you really want to look around for Dally. You nearly jump, spilling beer on yourself, when his low voice speaks up from right behind you. "Where's the broad you said you were bringing? The one with the legs you kept talkin' about?"

"She's off fighting for the feline cause." You can't tell if this mistake is intentional or if Mathews is just a dumbass, so you don't say anything.

Steve snorts. "Two-Bit's taking it real hard."

Somebody starts to respond, but you turn to face Mathews and cut in. "I heard there's some kinda party at Miller's house tomorrow night. You oughta come, cheer yourself up. Get over the heartbreak."

He cocks an eyebrow, unfazed by your interruption. "You think I ain't heard about that already? Hell, she had to make sure I was comin' before she could even call it a party."

Dallas looks at you. "Who, that Mary chick? The short one?"

"'Scuse me, I wasn't talkin' to you," you say. "I think this is one of those parties you hafta be invited to, anyway."

"I don't need some shitty invite."

You shrug. "Guess not, if you can convince Mathews here to take you as his date. Maybe he will, since his other one left to go make the world a better place an' shit."

You keep a straight face until the exchange is over with. The, you let a tiny smile dance on your lips. Without another word, you move past him, careful to brush your arm against his while you go.

XXX

The next day, he shows at Miller's party. Sure, it might just be to spite you, to prove that he does whatever the hell he wants and you can't stop him. But then again, he's not stupid. Your manipulation may have worked on some other guy, but there's no way it worked on him. Nobody plays Dallas Winston unless he wants them to.

Regardless, he's there. As far as you're concerned, that means he wants to see you.

If that's what he wants, you make sure you don't give it to him. At least not right away. Instead, you mosey around to different groups, striking up a conversation with whoever you happen across.

Even though you went to the party for Dally's sake, you can't help noticing that Mitch Campbell is looking at you from across the room. You make eye contact and shoot him a somewhat sarcastic grin. He's not a big fan of yours, and vice versa. But he keeps you on your toes, and that's all you can really ask for.

You look around, decide there's nobody interesting left to talk to, and head over to him for the hell of it. With a hand on your hip, you look up at him. "What the hell d'you want, Mitch?"

He cocks an eyebrow. "I wasn't exactly beckonin' you over here. Or really wantin' you anywhere 'round here."

Shaking your head, you raise your drink up to your lips, then say, "You haven't taken your eyes offa me since I got here."

"Bullshit. I've been too busy payin' attention to Debbie to give a damn about anybody else—'specially you."

"Any guy who says he'd choose Debbie"—you spit the name out, making it clear exactly how you feel about Debbie Hill—"over me is full of shit."

To make a point, you adjust your shirt so a little more cleavage shows, though you're displaying plenty already. He notices. His gaze flickers well below your face.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were flirtin' with me," he says. "Doin' a shitty job of it, too."

You open your mouth to shoot back some retort, but you don't get the chance.

Dally steps up, right next to you, and smirks at Mitch. "I thought they stopped inviting you to parties after you pissed in front of Lucy Greenwood's house."

"Yeah? And I heard you ain't been laid since you gave Molly Bane VD."

"You ever met Jenny Parker? 'Cause she'd tell you you don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about. She hasn't shut up about me since I fu—"

Mick takes a drink. "Jenny was saying the same shit about Louie Reed a couple months ago. I wouldn't go braggin' about havin' his sloppy seconds."

"I heard you've never had a chick, so you'd be happy with anybody's sloppy seconds." To your surprise, Dallas nods at you. "She told me."

He's lying, but you look at Mitch with wide eyes. "Sorry. I couldn't help it. I've never told a lie before, an' I can't just start now. Not even for you."

Mitch shrugs, unconcerned. "Guess you ain't countin' yourself then, 'cause I'm pretty sure you were callin' yourself my girl not too long ago."

Unfortunately, that's the first honest thing he's said all night. But before he mentions any other details, he flips Dally off and leaves to get himself more beer.

You feel your face flush. Your whole deal with Mitch was a waste of time, and you don't appreciate him bringing it up. After all, he dumped you three months ago because "a friend" (Scott fuckin' Hanson, you found out later) said you were screwing around, and that's bullshit. You've never even fucked anyone in the first place. But he didn't listen to you, so the hell with him.

Frowning, you look at Dally, who's watching you with an unreadable expression. "You dated that bastard?"

Instantly, you get defensive. "You dated Molly Bane, so shut the hell up."

He snorts. "I don't know who that broad is."

"You don't?"

"Fuck, no. Campbell makes up shit like that all the time."

It's your turn to scoff. "Compared to Scott, he's some kinda saint. Nice job beatin' him up a couple weeks back, by the way."

"Who, Hanson?" He says the name with as much disdain as you said Debbie's. "He was asking for it." He pauses, and then gives you a knowing look. "I'm gonna kick his ass again next week. Same track as last time."

He's probably right. Scott can't race. Still…

"You got a pretty big ego."

He grins. "No shit? Then how come you're over here talking to me?"

You bat your eyelashes. "Who said bein' a cocky asshole was a bad thing?"

"An' being a bitch ain't so bad either, huh?"

"Right." You ruffle your hair. "So long as you look good while you're at it."

"That's what I was thinkin', too," he says, looking down at you.

Then, just like that, he walks off again, and you're left wanting more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much for reading and the feedback! ****Just a heads up, this chapter doesn't wander into M territory, but there is some sexiness. Yep. And ****I still don't own The Outsiders, "Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word" by Elton John, or "I'm Sorry" by Brenda Lee. **

**Chapter 2**

You squeeze into a booth next to Dallas Winston, but you're not entirely sure how you got there. And no, you're not drunk, not stoned, not even particularly tired.

Everything's such a blur that, when you think back on it, you can't pinpoint the exact time you started dating. Your best guess is somewhere between the second fight between Hanson and Dally and that time you got kicked out of the Nightly Double for stealing someone's food off the counter right in front of them.

"Two Cokes," Dally orders right when the waitress walks up to you, before she can start spouting off about the daily special and all that shit. The Dingo tries to be a real classy place with friendly waiters and all, but it's useless. They've got cheap burgers. You greasers will keep coming and wearing it down till the cops bar the doors.

The waitress is about to scamper away, but you stop her. "You got Pepsi?"

"Pepsi?"

"Yeah. Pepsi. Y'know, 'Taste that beats the others cold'?" You lean back and look at Dallas, then the waitress. "Haven't you seen the advertisement?"

"Sorry. We've just got Coke. That alright?"

"They put cocaine in it."

The girl's eyes twitch, like she's trying hard not to roll them. "Not anymore."

"I'll take a Pibb."

She nods and leaves you to your flirting. You train your eyes on her back as she goes. "She looks like a Phyllis."

He ignores your comment, resting his arm on the tacky booth behind your shoulder. "You always make a big production out of everything?"

"Only the important stuff."

"It's a fucking soda."

"So?"

You can't tell if you're fighting or not. And for God's sake, you're only two minutes into your date.

"I always ask. Every time I come in," you say when he doesn't respond. "I figure the soda might change sometime."

"That's stupid."

He's right. In Tulsa, Oklahoma, nothing changes. Not the people, not Will Rogers, and definitely not the drinks.

XXX

For one whole week, your cheeks flush red, your fingernails curl around your skirt, and your skin lights on fire every time he touches you. He could slap you right across the face and you'd probably still bust up in giggles.

He doesn't know it yet, but you're thinking about sleeping with him.

It shouldn't be a big deal, but you can't seem to shake the thought. It creeps in all the time, when you least expect it. Every night before you fall asleep. In the middle of a math test when you're trying to multiply in your head. When he meets up with you in front of your house.

Will you embarrass the hell out of yourself when you tell him you've never done it when he obviously has, lots of times with lots of girls? Will you feel dumb and trashy afterwards? Will he dump you on your ass?

You drive yourself crazy for seven days, then you decide. In your room, you hoist your black lacy panties up your legs, hunt down the matching bra, and check yourself out in the mirror. The underwear cost damn near all your savings, and you felt like an idiot when you bought the stuff, but you made a good choice.

Dally's got a room at Buck's, and you only have two beers before you two head up the stairs. He leads the way up, as always.

Your hand stretches forward to grab his, and his pace slows a little. He shoots you a look over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

"What?" you ask.

He spits the word back at you, quick as a bullet. "What?"

"Nothin'."

He's not the hand-holding type of a guy.

But he sure does love kissing. His mouth finds yours as soon as the door shuts, and your arm lopes around his neck. You brush your chest up against his, and your virgin-side hopes he can't tell you put on a special bra just for this.

You're all over each other—your palms, your fingers, your lips—and you're so nervous you hardly enjoy it.

Your shirt winds up on the floor next to his. His hand brushes your waistband and tugs. Then—

"Shit." You pull back.

He doesn't seem to hear you. His hands slide up, and his long fingers brush your abdomen, the dent between your ribs, the underwire of your bra.

"I forgot my purse."

His breath tickles the skin on your neck as he kisses along your throat. "Huh?"

"My purse is downstairs."

"Get it later."

"I can't. Somebody's gonna steal it."

That's what you get for bringing money in a place full of crooks, you suppose. Can't trust 'em with anything.

His hand drops to your thigh, and longing tugs at the pit of your stomach. It finds a home just a little further down. Where was this feeling a minute ago, before you needed to call a time-out?

You pull his hands away from you. "I'll be back in a minute, promise." His shirt's closest, so you put that on instead.

You leave the door open just a crack when you step out into the hallway. From inside the room, you hear his mattress squeak, then a gruff, "Jesus Christ."

Mitch Campbell is sitting at the bar, guarding your purse. Or maybe he's waiting for the perfect moment to make off with it. Either way, you're relieved it's still around. The only downside is Scott Hanson, who's taking up too much space in the seat next to him.

"Mitchie," you say, propping an elbow up on the back of Scott's chair. "You watchin' my purse just for me?"

Scott is so drunk he can't sit up straight; he's hunched forward, chin almost touching the bottle in front of him.

Mitch straightens. "I was wonderin' who this belongs to."

Bullshit. You had it back when you were dating him. He must've seen you with it a hundred times.

"Well, it's mine." Your reach forward to grab the purse, but he slides it away.

"You ain't going to thank me? I did you a favor."

"Thank you."

Scott turns his head to the side, resting his temple on the top of his drink. "That wasn't the kind of thanks he had in mind. Favors for favors is the name of the—That shirt looks like shit on you."

Mitch's grip on the purse goes slack, and you feel his eyes rake over your body. It's different than the way Dally looks at you. No lust at all.

"Whose is that?" he asks.

"Nobody's."

"At least you're wearin' your own pants, I guess."

"Not for long," Scott says. "Right, Sylvia? It's a sorry night if you don't take 'em off at least once, right?"

Your claw the skin just below his right eye. He howls like a fucking dog, so loud that you're surprised the whole building doesn't shake.

Buck appears behind the bar with that tired, too-old-for-this-bullshit look that always shows up around one a.m. Unless there's a great party going on and he gets to join in. "That's your last one," he says, jabbing his thumb at the near-empty bottle under Scott's face.

For a second, you think he's about to howl again.

You turn back to Mitch. "Give me my purse."

He doesn't hand it over, but his face softens, eyes darting towards Scott. "He's not always like this, Syl."

"What do I care?"

More important, why does he? What's it matter to him if you think his friend's worthless?

"You don't," he says. His lips form a thin line as he lifts the purse. "Here, take it and go."

You're not interested in losing your virginity with Scott Hanson's voice in your head, so you go upstairs, tell Dally what the asshole said, and wait in the room while he handles things in the bar. Then, you pretend you're asleep.

XXX

When the big day finally comes, you don't feel trashy and dumb. You don't think about Scott Hanson. You don't even remember to wear your special underwear.

"You're not so bad," you tell him afterwards, lying with your head against his chest. It's sweaty, but you don't care.

He shifts underneath you. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"I wasn't speakin' in code."

Here it is again—that uncomfortable exchange when you can't tell if you're having a fight with your boyfriend or not. Maybe he's playing with you. Maybe he hates your guts.

He doesn't respond. You lie there together God knows how long until someone starts jiggling with the door handle.

You twist and pull the blankets tighter around you, clutching them tight to your chest, and Dally swears under his breath. Sluggish, he starts to detangle himself from you.

Then, you hear a woman's voice outside. "_Honey_." She giggles. "Honey, this isn't our room."

The jiggling stops.

"Oh," a man says. "Shit."

"We're on the other side."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, babe."

If he owes anybody an apology it's you. But you'll let it go, so long as he doesn't come barging in.

Now, it's just you, Dallas, and The Monkees floating through the speakers downstairs.

Your cheeks turn red, and you bury your face back in his chest, hoping he can't feel the heat. After a few seconds, his arms wrap around your waist—first one, then the other—and that says everything you need to know.

XXX

You've never dated anybody who takes as much pride in fighting as Dally does. But one day, he isn't so cool about it.

You run into him at Buck's, and the first thing you notice is his dark knuckles. Then his black eye, and the deep, setting bruise along his jaw.

The look on his face tells you not to ask, but you do, anyway. "Who'd you get in a fight with?"

He shoves right past you to the bar, and you tail him like a kid. He orders a drink.

"Dallas."

He turns his back on you to take a swig, and you stand behind him, shifting you weight. "What, you givin' me the silent treatment?" Still nothing. "For what, you asshole?"

"Fuck off."

Looks like it's one of his simmering days, where he's angry about everything and anything, and you don't have any way to make it better.

Your voice drops, even though you want nothing more than to snap back at him. "You okay?"

He doesn't say anything then, either. So you walk away.

About an hour later, Curly Shepard says Dally's headed for reform school. He says it with a smile, even though he really should be saying sorry. You just lost your boyfriend. Again.

You don't liek being alone, so you head toward Veronica's house. On your way, you spot two greasers on the sidewalk. Horsekid is hard to miss with his Curtis looks, but the person next to him is almost unrecognizable. He's got a lot of bruises. When you get a closer, you see his arms are inked with black and blue, and there's even one on his neck.

You don't talk to Johnny Cade much. He's not a real good conversationalist. But more than once, you've seen him hurt, and every time he is, Dally simmers. He gets in more fights, swears more, drinks more, and he doesn't have the time of day for you.

A lot of people think you're dumb and easy, and maybe they're right. After all, you are dating Dallas Winston. But you know a thing or two about people and patterns and you can make a connection when you need to.

Johnny's hurt, so Dally's locked up, so you're out of a boyfriend. Dally likes Johnny better than you.

At least there's a way to change that. But you can't do it when Ponyboy's around. He'll go running to his brothers, who'll swat you off like a fly.

Dally's going to be gone awhile, so you're patient. You wait until you can talk to Johnny alone.

After about a week, you stumble on him by accident while he hangs around the old junkyard. As far as you can tell, there isn't anyone around.

You approach him slowly. "Johnny?" you call, your voice sweet.

He looks up, freezing in place, and stares at you. You're not sure what to make of the look—it's not impressed, fearful, anything at all. Pretty cool and collected like all the other greasers you know, mostly, but without all the anger underneath.

You stop a few feet away, with a car between you. "You're Johnny, right?"

He nods. Still not a big talker, apparently.

"How come I've never talked much to you before?" Now, he shrugs. Your eyes narrow. "You got a workin' tongue, or are you mute?"

It gets quiet, and you just stare at him, waiting for one damn word to leave his mouth. Eventually, he says, "I guess I don't go to Buck's much."

"That's not the only place I hang out. You ever stop by the Dingo? The bowling alley? The drive-in?"

"Sometimes."

"You got a cigarette?"

He hesitates, reaches for his coat pocket. His movements are stiff, like he's still a little sore after the beating he took. Rumor has it, his mom went after him with a belt.

He holds it out to you, and you move around the car to take it.

You take a drag and watch him. He shifts, eyes darting back and forth like he's praying someone will come.

It'll take you days to make any progress with this kid, so you skip right to the chase. "So, you got a favorite place to go?"

He shrugs again.

"How about the Dingo?" you ask, edging closer. "You like the Dingo? 'Cause I'm itchin' for a hamburger."

His eyes widen, and he shakes his head. You try a few more times, suggest a few more places, and his head never changes course.

You weren't expecting this. You're not used to rejection, especially from some quiet greaser who's at least a year younger than you.

"To hell with you, then," you say, turning on heel. You make sure to take his smoke with you.

You try the same thing two more times, but all you get is a couple lousy cigarettes.

XXX

Veronica's got a date with Charlie Williams, which leaves you all alone at Buck's when Steve Randle finds you. As soon as he opens the door, you can tell he's all worked up, but when isn't he?

You sit at the bar, listening to some old Brenda Lee song, and pretend you don't notice him walk in.

"_I'm sorry," _Brenda croons. "_So sorry that I was such a fool. I didn't know love could be so cruel…"_

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" Randle greets you, looming less than a foot away.

You sip at your Pibb.

He takes a step closer. "Don't you come around Johnny again, you hear?"

Your straw _whoosh_es as you suck air.

"I mean it, Sylvia. I ain't in any mood to play games."

You glance at him, mouth still attached to your straw. "Who's playin'?"

"You are, and if you know what's good for you, you'll knock it off."

"Or what?"

"I'll personally beat the tar outta you."

"Personally?" you repeat. "I gotta say, Randle, I'm flattered. It ain't every day you'll mess up that stupid hair o' yours over nothin'."

He scowls and gives you the finger before he goes.

XXX

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" you ask. "You're joking, right?"

Dally's been in a bad mood ever since Johnny Cade got his ass kicked by a group of Socs, and today's no different. Apparently jumping that Soc just off Main Street didn't blow off as much steam as he thought it would.

You jab a finger in his face. "They've got a warrant out for you, and you ain't even gonna—?"

"What the fuck do you expect to me say?"

Veronica's at your side, loyal as always. "You could say sorry for getting yourself thrown in jail all the time."

"Why the hell are you even here?" he asks her, and she shrinks back. You start to think maybe you should leave Buck's parking lot and get drunk inside, but you're afraid Dally will wander off if you move.

Your arms cross over your chest. "How stupid d'you have to be to go jump somebody—especially a _Soc_—offa Main Street? Do you like gettin' caught?"

"Better than hangin' around with a bitch like you."

You'd like to take his cigarette out of his mouth and jam it down his throat. "What's the point of havin' a girlfriend if you leave her alone all the time?"

"Been wondering that myself."

Your chest starts to hurt. "What's that mean? You don't want me anymore?"

He takes a drag, and you hear a car honk miles away. "Who gives a shit?" he asks, then he points at the ring on your finger. "That ain't gonna stop you from fuckin' the first guy who looks your way while I'm gone."

You freeze.

That's not true. You kiss other boys, but you sure don't sleep with them. Veronica shifts next to you, but you turn on her. "Go away."

"What?"

"Go inside. I'll see you later."

She leaves you alone, and you turn back to Dallas. "And havin' me around isn't gonna stop you from gettin' thrown in jail, is it?"

He rolls his eyes like some thirteen-year-old girl. "No."

You stand in front of him, wondering what just happened; if you're broken up, if he wants his ring back, if the fight's over. But you've never had an argument with Dally that didn't end quick. You yell, you cuss, you say all kinds of awful things, then it blows over.

This time feels different.

You're too tired to fight with him anymore, and even though you shouldn't, you know you'll miss him like hell as soon as he's arrested.

"You wanna come inside?" you ask.

"For what?"

"I dunno. A drink."

He looks at you like you're crazy, sort of like he did when you tried holding his hand all those months ago. But he agrees.

You sit next to each other at the bar, both quiet until he gets a few drinks in him.

"As soon as I'm out, I'm gonna find those fucking Socs," he says.

And then he'll be back in jail again. And you'll be alone.

You swallow hard and run your finger along the metal of the ring. Then, you rip it off your finger. It moves easy, like you put lotion on before you tried. Maybe it's a sign you never should've worn it to begin with.

You slide the ring along the counter so it's resting in front of him. He faces you, saying, "Keep it till I'm out, huh? Don't want some fucker stealing it in there."

It'll be so much harder then. By the time he gets released, you know you'll be half out of your mind with loneliness. You always are.

But you're not a strong person, so you shove it back on your finger and promise to enjoy a few more months as Dallas Winston's girlfriend. Then, you'll find somebody else, and Dally will spend the rest of his life doing what he does best—fighting and hating and pretending he's happy with it all.

You see the future so clearly that you don't have any question what's in store for you. Or him. Everything in Tulsa is so predictable it about makes you sick.

The police come get him the next day.

As soon as he's gone, you head off to the movie house, sit in the back row, and watch Henry Fonda work. But your real favorite part is always the trailers, and that's how you know a Paul Newman movie's on its way.

You lean back in your chair and decide to play a little game with yourself: If Paul Newman comes out before Dally returns, you'll leave the ring off on his bed, let him make his own assumptions why. But if Dally's back first, you'll keep the ring and pretend nothing ever happened.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! So sorry about the wait. Got caught up in college-y things :) Anyways, this is the last chapter. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

You spend the whole night in Buck's waiting for news, and you're not quite sure why. You've never been too invested in that Soc/greaser stuff, mostly because it doesn't affect you much. You're poorer than dirt, your momma's never home, and you can't wait to leave Tulsa. If some rich kids like to throw parties across town, it's got nothing to do with you.

Mathews promised he'd let you know how it went. That was a couple days ago, when he'd been all jazzed after their war council meeting with the other side, so he's probably forgotten all about it by now.

With a bruised cheek and cut on his lip, Tim shows up instead. He's high off the fight, and a few of his boys come tumbling in after him. They must've beat the Socs, then, because his gang doesn't fall easy.

You spend a couple minutes watching Tim, he spends a couple watching you, and you half expect to see Dally come through the door and drag you away from his friend. Enemy. Whatever the hell they are.

But Dallas doesn't come, because he had to go do something stupid like burn down a church. You roll your eyes. If he wasn't damned before, he sure is now. Burning down a church sounds like a one-way ticket to eternity with the devil as far as you're concerned.

But you'll probably end up in Hell, too, because you brush up against Tim, put your hands on his chest, and whisper in his ear. "All your bones still intact?"

He looks down at you with that sly Shepard grin. You realize what you've just said, but your face stopped flushing years ago.

"Why you askin'?" he says. Tim doesn't have a lot of time for teases, which is why you'd never work together. Teasing is half the fun, and Dally seemed to agree as long as the payoff was alright.

You raise an eyebrow, digging your nails into his chest through the fabric of his shirt. His muscles are tight underneath your hand, and you can see every one. He's taller than Dally, thinner too, but Dallas's muscles are nothing to write home about, either. He can't afford enough food to look as strong as those Hollywood actors you always see on TV.

Your lips brush against Tim's jaw. "I'm not plannin' on going home tonight. I already got a room."

Yes, you're going to Hell, because less than two minutes later, you take him up the stairs. There's a tiny flutter in your stomach as you walk, but it doesn't belong there. You're broken up with Dally, and even if you weren't, you wouldn't be sorry about this. Neither of you are ever sorry about anything.

XXX

The next morning, you wake up next to Tim. You didn't get drunk the night before, but there's still that brief moment of alarm when you realize Dally isn't the one lying next to you. Still, Tim's not such a bad guy. He might not have the same bad-boy appeal since you already got that out of your system with Dallas, but who cares? He's good-looking, occasionally entertaining, and maybe you'd even date him if your boyfriend wasn't in the picture.

You wonder if you should bother to feel guilty. The guilt will be short-lived anyway because the next time you see Dally, you're sure one of you will start another fight. You'll both find somebody else to tide you over for a few weeks, then you'll get back together just because you feel like it.

Tim's going to feel like shit when he wakes up because, despite what he told you last night, you know he must've taken a few good punches. You saw the bruises forming on his stomach, but you'd been a little too preoccupied to pay them much attention. But either way, he'll be in a bad mood, and you've dealt with enough angry guys to last you a lifetime.

You accidently elbow him in the ribs as you try to untangle yourself from the sheets. He groans a little in his sleep and rolls over. "Whoops," you mutter, though you know he can't hear you. "Sorry."

You get dressed and go downstairs without bothering to hide what you did last night. Everyone who glances at you will know, but they can't say anything worse about you than they already do.

The dirty looks don't come. The catty whispers don't come. Instead, you get at least seven hung-over, awkward apologies. You stand there awhile in confusion, arms hanging limp at your sides, until someone has the sense to hand you a newspaper. Mitch is nice enough to take you over to a stool at the bar so you can sit, too.

"I'm sorry, Syl," Mitch says, leaning against the bar next to you. You should probably thank him for taking care of you better than anybody else does, but you're too busy reading the front page.

You've never been a big fan of cops. They lock your dad up when he gets too rowdy at the bars, then it costs your family money to bail him out. As if your momma needs more stress on her shoulders. But, on that day, you learn what it means to hate them. To really, truly hate them the way Dallas does. Or did. He doesn't feel anything anymore.

You put the paper down on the bar in front of you and wonder why it had to be cops. He spent his whole life trying to prove they couldn't stop him, and the last thing he ever did was give in.

XXX

You find yourself remembering that girl you saw at The Dingo the day you asked Tim if Dally was racing, back when you were fourteen. Tim had called you a kid. You disagreed.

But he was right. You were a kid, because you had no fucking clue what the real world was. It had nothing to do with age.

You'd thought you were so smart, so cynical, and better than all the other dumbasses the hung around the diner. You remember rolling your eyes, thinking how stupid the girl was for crying over some guy. But now, you know what she felt like.

Sort of. Though you can't even call what you're experiencing 'heartbreak.' It's not the right word. No, heartbreak is when you get dumped after a month and now you have to start the whole fucking dating thing over again. But what you're feeling—right then, in that moment, standing in the upstairs hallway at Buck's—isn't even close.

The door at the end of the hallway grabs your attention. You have no idea why it matters, or at least you tell yourself that you don't. You're sure there's some explanation for it, but just before you can figure it out, it slips out of your grasp. Or rather, you push it away before you throw up.

Someone tried to paint the wooden door white at one point, but now it's peeling, and you're liable to get a splinter if you don't know where to push on it. In short, the door is ugly and useless as shit. And it almost makes you cry.

The thought you had just moments before, that glint of pain that you pushed away, resurfaces. This time, it hits you before you can suppress it: Dally won't walk through that door again.

It's a stupid thing to think, because he won't walk on the stained carpet again, either, or on gravel in the parking lot, or anywhere on the fucking earth at all. He's dead, maybe already in the ground for all you know, and that's it. That's the cold, hard truth. The facts, the reality. He's never coming back.

For a second, when all the blood rushes to your head, you wish you didn't have to come back either.

You slouch against the wall and let yourself slide down to sit on the dirty gray carpet. It strange—you don't hear a single noise coming through the paper-thin walls, though you're vaguely aware that there's some Kitty Wells playing on the main floor. Not that it matters. It all seems so far away that it doesn't mean anything. Doesn't register.

As if all on its own, your head dips forward, and your hands move to cover your face. You sit like that for a while—you don't know how long—and nothing happens. You don't cry, don't speak, don't even notice the couples walking past you, piss-drunk. And they don't notice you, pathetically slumped over with your head in your hands. One of them bumps into you and lets out a slurred, "Sorry."

When you don't respond, they leave you there. Just like he left you.

XXX

You didn't know it was possible to drink as much as you have and remain conscious. A lesser person may have already passed out somewhere, but you? You're awake, but too drunk to really enjoy anything because you can barely make your way around the roadhouse. Today, for once, your alcohol tolerance seems like some lousy trick of nature. As if you haven't already had enough of those in your life. You'd rather be unconscious.

Some guy (Ed?) flops down on one of the bar stools next to you. He seems steady and together, but the tiny slur in his voice gives him away. "How's yer beer?"

"Not workin' out too good," you respond, though you still take a drink.

"Sorry ta hear that. Mine's good. Real cool an' shit."

"I didn't ask how yours was."

He looks at you with his eyebrows furled. "You di'nt? Well you shoulda."

This pointless conversation is going nowhere, so you put your elbow up on the bar, rest your chin on your fist, and close your eyes. Maybe you can fall asleep right there if you try. Shit, you're drowsy enough.

You're pretty sure Ed's still talking to you, oblivious to the fact that you're ignoring him, but your ears pick up another voice. "—Better bring money, 'cause Glenn's organizing a tournament for…"

This voice sounds slightly familiar. You can't place it, though, so you don't bother opening your eyes. At least, not until he speaks again.

"I played that son of a bitch in poker, and Winston fuckin' cheated me out of my money," he says. "My fuckin' money. Guess that's what that asshole gets, an' we can all be happy knowin' where he's rottin' right 'bout now."

You clench your fists, ready to beat the shit out of the guy. You don't care if you're a girl, shorter and slimmer than this 200 pound jackass. You don't care that you're a little too drunk to win a fight, even against someone your own size. Hell, you don't even care if you win—so long as you can hurt him.

But it turns out you don't have to touch the red-faced fuck. Tim Shepard does it for you.

XXX

You don't visit Dally's grave. Shit, you don't even go to his funeral. It's too melodramatic, too unnecessary. Too painful.

Instead, every time you miss him, you pick up the nearest drink, and find some lonely place for yourself. And you drink. Drink and drink until you fall asleep, and then when you wake up, you're able to trade in the emotional bullshit to deal with a very real hangover.

Speaking of which…

Groaning, you sit up and swear as your back cracks. You squint around the room cautiously. Apparently you couldn't make it all the way upstairs to your bedroom, but hell. At least you're in your own house. One time a couple weeks ago, you wound up on the Curtis couch, but it wasn't too bad. Dally's old friends were too busy worrying about the sick Horsekid to bother with you.

Dallas always had friends you weren't too fond of. Mathews was alright, and you'd have to be blind to say Sodapop wasn't good-looking, but you already know you're never going to be friends with any of them. As far as you're concerned, that's nothing to be sorry about.

But you give one of them a call, anyway. Probably the one who hates you most of all.

He picks up the phone after a few short rings. You have no clue what you're doing when you say, "Randle?"

His voice drops and turns cold. "This Sylvia?"

"Yeah."

There's a heavy silence, and you can barely stand it. You've worked so hard to avoid the quiet ever since the night Dallas died.

Eventually, Randle says, "What do you want?"

That's a damn good question. What _do_ you want? "I dunno."

You hear him sigh, and he says, "I'm gonna be late for work."

You can practically hear the phone moving closer to the receiver, but just before it clicks off, you find your voice. "Were you there?"

"Where?"

"On that street? The paper said the cops had to deal with some friends of his."

Another pause, even worse than the first. Then, "Yeah, I was there." He raises his voice, suddenly angry. "And where were you?"

You're so surprised by the question that an honest answer slips out. "Fucking Tim Shepard."

"Yeah, I heard."

He hangs up. It's a long time before you do the same.

XXX

Buck tells you he needs to rent out Dally's room, and he's sorry, but if you can't get your shit out of there by the end of the week, he'll have to throw it out. You nearly claw him across the face, but he gets back in his little red car before you get the chance.

When you go back to Buck's, up the familiar staircase and into the room you've spent so many nights in, you aren't expecting to find everything the way it was the last time you were inside. But apparently no one else had the guts to go through a dead kid's clothes and empty bottles and cigarette packs.

First thing you do is light one up. From his pack, with his lighter, on his goddamn bed. You think about dropping the burning thing onto the sheets just to see if they'll catch fire.

Kneeling on the ground in his room, you shuffle through his drawers, cough on the dust, and wonder what the hell he was keeping an broken old radio for. At the bottom of the top drawer, under a few pairs of socks with holes in them, you find your ring. Or his ring? Nobody's ring, actually, except some drunk senior he stole it from. He'd been so proud of that, too.

You pinch it between your index finger and your thumb and wonder why he bothered keeping that, too. You don't have any good answer, but you do the same dumb thing he did: You pocket it and decide to carry it around with you for a while.

But, unlike him, you're not brave enough to put it back on your finger. It'd probably get stuck or some shit like that, and you're already crying hard enough as it is.

You gather up a few pairs of your panties, a dress he'd slid off of you on your birthday, and take a nice, expensive lighter for good measure. He must have bought it after you cheated on him because you would've remembered seeing such a pretty blue lighter.

Before long, you beat it the hell out of there.

Buck can have whatever he wants from that room because none of it means anything to you now. You wander around Tulsa without any place to be, and sooner than you'd like, you find yourself back at home. It's dusk, with the sun just beginning to set, and there's a cool breeze that occasionally brushes your face.

Sitting on the steps of your front porch, you numbly stare out across the yard with its weeds and brown grass that's too damn tall. A few words slip past your lips, in more of a monotone than you've ever used before.

Once you've said them, you wish the sentence had more of a bite to it, so it could sound like the way you used to talk when Dally was alive. But your speech is slow coming, and there ain't shit you can do about it.

You give your first real apology when you're seventeen. "I'm sorry I ever met you."


End file.
